


What a Lovely Way to Burn

by mariana_oconnor



Series: The Trouble With Roommates [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Awkward Flirting, Bucky is gonna seduce the fuck out of Clint, Clint Barton is not a superhero, Deaf Clint Barton, Flirting, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Hurt Clint Barton, Identity Porn, Just as soon as the supervillains will let him, M/M, Misunderstandings, No dogs were harmed in the writing of this fic, Oblivious Clint Barton, Secret Identity, Steve Rogers is very amused, Tony Stark is also very amused, Yoga, flirtus interruptus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 03:02:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Five times Clint Barton was too hot to handle, and one time Bucky returned the favour.





	1. Too Darn Hot

**Author's Note:**

> For the Clint Barton Bingo square D3: Flirting
> 
> Title from the song Fever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer in the city and Clint just wants to cool down a bit. He's not expecting a visit from the Winter Soldier. But what does a superhero want in Clint's apartment in the middle of the night, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the song Too Darn Hot from the musical Kiss Me, Kate.

The air-con is broken. It’s the height of summer in New York City and the air-con is broken. Even in the middle of the night it’s unbearable.

If Clint lived alone he wouldn’t even be bothering with his boxers, but, as it is, he supposes he should at least keep some semblance of respectability.

He’s coated with sweat, the air is heavy against his skin and he’s turned the pillow over so many times that both sides are now equally warm.

Lucky, at least, seems to understand that it is not snuggle weather, passed out on the floor by the window, probably hoping for some little breeze to come in and mitigate the unending heat.

It’s no good. He can’t sleep like this, with the heat just… oppressing him.

Clint pulls himself off the covers with a heavy sigh and heads for the kitchen.

Ice water. Ice water would be good right about now. Or maybe just some ice, a whole bath full of ice that he could drown in.

He grabs the ice from the freezer and shovels it into a glass, slipping one cube between his lips with a moan that he can’t hear.

He presses the glass to his chest, and it’s a blessed relief. Dear god, he’s never wanted to be cold so much in his life.

He takes another handful of ice and rubs it across the back of his neck, bracing himself against the counter and groaning – he can feel the vibrations running through him even if he can’t really hear them. The ice melt trickles down his back in tantalisingly thin lines.

“Fuck yes,” he says, the words silent to himself, before reaching to pour some water into the glass.

He turns around to rest his back against the counter and freezes.

In the doorway opposite him, frozen in place, is a man dressed all in black, a black mask over his lower face, black goggles over his eyes, and in the streetlight through the window, Clint can see the glint of metal on his left arm.

The Winter Soldier is standing in his apartment.

“What the fuck?!” He asks, then remembers that he doesn’t have his aids in because he doesn’t wear them to sleep or to give himself an ice bath in the middle of the night and puts his hand up to his ear to check, even though he knows he’ll find nothing there. He swears again.

Then the Winter Soldier seems to shake off whatever fucking thing was holding him in place and begins to _sign_ at him.

“Sorry. Cap asked me to check on Barnes,” he says. “Hello again, Clint.”

The mask means that there’s little to no expression in the signs. So much meaning is conveyed by the face in sign language that having that avenue cut off means that Clint has no idea if the guy’s intending to make good on the offer he made months ago to shoot him.

He remembered Clint’s name, though. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Clint might have, maybe, had a little crush on the guy before the whole death threat incident.

Hell, who’s he kidding, the death threat only made his crush bigger. Clint’s survival instincts are wired wrong when it comes to people.

Clint’s hands are still full of… well, water now, mostly, the ice melt is running down his arms, so he speaks aloud instead.

“OK…” he says. “His bedroom’s the far door,” Clint points. “I sleep over… there… if you wanna say hi.”

“Good to know,” the guy signs back. Fuck that face mask, Clint really can’t tell if that was flirty or a put down. Probably a put down, he really can’t imagine him flirting.

“Right…” Clint says. “I’ll be… in my bedroom.”

“Good night,” the Winter Soldier signs, before adding “Tell no one you saw me.”

Clint nods before heading for his bedroom where his brain actually melts.

Was that a booty call? Is his roommate banging the Winter Soldier? Because on one hand, Clint’s now a little scared that if he ogles too much he’s gonna end up shot. Probably not fatally, because The Winter Soldier's a good guy. On the other hand, Clint would pay so much money to see that show.

But he’s got will power, and he’s not actually a creep. He is just gonna lie here and... not think about it, because it is way too hot to think about...

He wonders what The Winter Soldier looks like when you peel the leather off.

Fuck... it is too hot for this.

He resists the urge to put his hearing aids in just in case they get a bit noisy. That would be weird. He is not going to invade their privacy.

He’s just going to lie here and not think about it.

He’s gonna not think about it _really quietly_.

*


	2. Close enough to burn your skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a date... probably. It's just dancing.

“So you’re going out for drinks?” Steve asks.

“It’s a roommate thing,” Bucky tells him as he checks over the next gun. He’s cleaned this one twice now, but it’s good to have a reason not to pay too much attention to Steve sometimes.

“Is anyone else going?" Steve asks.

“I don’t know. I don't think so," Bucky says. He hopes no one else is going. He's been sort of looking forward to having Clint all to himself. "It's just drinks, Steve.”

“It’s _just_ a date, Bucky.” Steve says. “If he asked you and no one else is going, it’s a date.”

“Or, it’s just drinks..."

*

"Did I ask him on a date, Nat?" Clint asks.

“Where are you taking him?”

“I’m not _taking him_, it’s not a date. We’re just going out. Together." It can't be a date, because if it's a date then Clint's making a move on the Winter Soldier's boyfriend. If Clint's making a move on The Winter Soldier's boyfriend then Clint is going to end up in hospital. Again.

“Where are you going? Together?” Natasha asks with a tone that says she is definitely humouring him.

“The club down the street."

“Mmhm," she says. That sounds judgemental. She's judging him. “What are you wearing?”

“I was thinking... just jeans and a t-shirt. Y'know, my clubbing t-shirt."

“You mean the obscenely tight jeans and the shirt without the arms so you can show off your biceps?" she asks.

“Uh... yes?” Clint looks at said jeans. They’re not _that_ tight. Well... they make his ass look good, but...

“You’re taking him on a date,” Natasha says.

“You should come. It can't be a date if you come."

“If Sam and I come, it's a double date," Natasha says.

“Oh god, that’s worse.”

“If you don’t want to go, then text him and say something came up,” she says, like that’s a reasonable solution. But Clint can’t cancel. Bucky had checked that they were still going this morning when they bumped into each other.

“I ca-an’t,” he wails, making Lucky whine at him.

“Then I guess you’re going on a date.”

Clint hangs up on her, because he can tell that she’s about to start laughing at him out right, rather than politely in her head like usual.

He looks at Lucky. Lucky looks back at him.

“Fuck my life," he says.

*

The last time Bucky went dancing it was 1944 and he was in Britain. The Lindy-hop had been all the rage and he'd been wearing uniform.

Clubbing hasn't really been on his To Do list for the 21st century, but seeing Clint in _that_ outfit makes him regret his short-sightedness.

Clint seems a bit nervous. Maybe this _is_ a date. But neither of them has said the word, so Bucky's still floating in a strange sort of limbo. It used to be easy, you'd ask the dame out, they'd say yes – or they'd slap you round the face for getting fresh – and you’d take her dancing. Guys were... more complicated, but still, there was a way of doing things.

Now there are labels and social media and Facebook complicated and Bucky doesn't know if there's like a queer code he's missing out on.

But if this is a date, then Bucky’s gonna make it the best date he possibly can. He’s gonna make it so that even if this isn’t a date, Clint’s gonna be begging for a second.

And maybe there'll only be one bedroom in use tonight. Maybe that’s pushing it too far, but Bucky has moves.

He remembers having moves.

He scans the club like he scans everything in his life these days. He sees the exits, he sees the threats. He sees the giggly girls eyeing the pair of them from the bar, and he resists the urge to move into Clint's personal space a bit more, to give off that _mine_ vibe. Hell, he doesn't know that this is a date and he doesn't even know for sure if Clint's gay, for all he's seen the guy checking him out occasionally.

But as well as that, he’s assessing the people on the dancefloor, the way they’re moving. He’s seen people dancing in this century, but he’s never paid them a lot of attention. He follows the sway and the rhythm of it, the way they surge together and pull apart. There’s a lot of hip action, a lot of sliding over and around each other. It's not the joyous bounce of the jitterbug. It's more... intense.

Clint knows the bartender and he’s ordered them drinks before Bucky’s turned away from the dancefloor.

“You okay?” he says, and Bucky understands how he manages, even with the hearing aids, because the music, for all intents and purposes, means that they’re all on a level playing field reading each other’s lips because the noise of the music drowns out all song. “I know this isn’t your kind of place, but...” Bucky reaches over to grab his drink as the barman sets it down. It takes him right into Clint’s personal space and he sees Clint’s eyes dart down and his tongue flicker over his lips, which is exactly the response he was hoping for. He holds Clint’s gaze as he picks up the drink and tips it up to swallow.

“I’m good,” he says. “You wanna dance.”

Clint gulps down his own beer rather frantically.

“If I say yes, am I gonna get shot?” he asks, which is a really weird thing to ask, even for Clint. Does he know? Bucky thought that he’d got away with the other week when he’d caught Clint in the kitchen... But Clint’s looking around the room like he’s searching for someone in the shadows. It doesn’t look like he’s worried about _Bucky_ shooting him. Apparently he’s scared someone else might. Who knows what's going on in his head?

Bucky just stares at him and shakes his head.

“No shooting, just dancing,” he says. “Come on, Barton. Show me your moves. Or are you a two left feet kind of guy?”

“Two left...?” Clint splutters. “I can dance, jackass. You are going to watch me dance."

“Sounds good,” Bucky tells him. He remembers the smile spreading over his lips, slow and heavy with meaning. He sees the way it makes Clint swallow reflexively.

He’s got this.

Clint moves like fucking sin. The way the man _bends_. Bucky's eyes are glued to him, to the way the muscles in his back and ass are just... fuck. Bucky is very much in favour of 21st century dancing.

The press on the dancefloor is so thick that he ends up practically touching the guy. It's a pity because he has to drag his eyes away, but it's damn good because he can feel Clint's body heat through his clothes, he can smell his sweat. That should be disgusting, but that, combined with the heat burning through him and the way Clint's moving, their bodies fitting together in sync, just makes Bucky think of other things they could be doing that would be this sweaty. Thinks about sweat pooling in the hollow of Clint's back, dripping down him like the melted water from those ice cubes.

He’s about to take the plunge. His hand is poised to run lightly over Clint’s hip, a question and a suggestion at the same time.

Then his card buzzes in his pocket.

He swears. No one hears him.

It’s the alert card, which means it’s a call to assemble, which means it’s an emergency, which means lives are at stake.

Looking at the line of Clint’s neck, Bucky wants to say ‘fuck it’ to heroing and just bury his mouth right into that muscle.

But no...

He pulls himself back and checks the card as surreptitiously as he can.

Steve's face is blinking at him, with an SOS.

By the time he looks up the crowd has moved and so has Clint, Bucky can't even see him through the people.

There’s no time.

He curses his luck and heads for the door.


	3. Brave Enough to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it's not Clint's fault. What are killer robots even doing in the park?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Firebird's Child by S. J. Tucker.

One of Clint’s best ideas ever was becoming a professional dog walker. What’s not to like? He gets to play with dogs every day and he gets paid for the privilege. If he had ever imagined that playing with dogs professionally was a thing when he was a kid, it would have been his number one dream job. Well, number 2 – right after professional superhero. But who’d want him as a superhero? A guy with no special powers whose number one claim to fame is being really good at shooting arrows.

Luckily, dog walking is a job that even a guy who was raised in the circus is qualified to do – so long as his sealed juvie record stays sealed.

It’s a beautiful summer day, the sun is shining, the skies are blue, and Clint has three dogs with him, not including Lucky. He stops to get an ice cream, because it’s that sort of day, though chocolate sauce and sprinkles are denied him by a chronic lack of pocket change.

He’s trying not to think about when the other shoe will drop. It’s a good day, and he’s determined to keep it that way as long as possible.

Of course, that’s when the other shoe does drop. Noisily. With robots.

Living in New York there’s always a chance you’ll run into some superhero – or super villain – action. It’s a risk you take every time you step out your front door.

But rent’s really low, so there are up sides.

Naturally Dr McCrazyPants (probably not his real name, but Clint’s pretty sure supervillains are scraping the bottom of the barrel these days) has chosen this exact time on this exact day in this exact park to unleash his masterplan.

Clint’s unsure what the details of that masterplan might be, but it definitely involves robots.

With flamethrowers.

Fuck.

*

Robots again. Bucky’s not judging these guys on their originality, but if he were, he might think that they should possibly mix it up a bit. This is the third lot of robots this month. Can no one genetically engineer a giant slug monster, or something?

On second thoughts, a giant slug monster sounds horrendous. He’ll keep the robots, thanks.

He punches the head off one and reaches down its neck to rip out some components that seem important.

The flamethrowers are new, he’ll give them that.

It’s Steve who spots him first, while Bucky’s busy playing ‘my robotic limb is better than yours’.

“Winter Soldier!” he shouts, his Cap voice in full force. The first few times Bucky had heard him talk like that, he’d had to bit his lips to keep himself from laughing out loud in front of all of the brass. “To the right!” Steve continues. “In the park!” Bucky’s not sure he’s using enough exclamation marks.

Bucky reacts automatically, though. It’s instinctive to follow Captain America’s commands after all these years, even if he is just Stevie dressed up in a Hallowe’en costume.

When he makes it round the corner into the park, it takes him a second to get his bearings, because there’s one of the robots, sure enough, flamethrower at the ready and pointing directly at a tiny ball of fluff that seems to be… growling and barking at it.

Bucky hears the distinctive whine of the flamethrower gearing up to make pooch en flambé, but before he can do anything, there’s a guttural yell from the far side of the clearing.

“_Mr Fluffles! No!_”

Out of nowhere a blur of purple, bad ideas and good intentions that sometimes answers to the name of Clint, flings itself at the robot.

Bucky’s heart stops. The robot stops. The dog stops.

Then motion comes rushing back with a series of sickening sounds.

A whoosh of air, a surprised cry, a sickening crunch and a pained grown, followed by that whine from the flamethrower again, as Clint is thrown across the clearing into a tree and the robot takes aim.

Bucky almost doesn’t make it in time. The flamethrower flares into life before he can reach the robot – he knows his bullets will only bounce off, and ricochets are a bitch – he hears another shout of pain and a canine yelp of fear.

The crash as Bucky’s metal fist punches straight through the chest plate of the robot resounds through the park. And he keeps hitting as sparks fly around him, until it hits the ground and shakes the trees with the impact.

He tears his arm out of it and runs back to Clint, who is curled in a ball on the ground. The shirt’s burnt off his back, the skin underneath is red and blistered, second degree burns at least. The air hands heavy with the stench of burning flesh. What does it say about Bucky that that doesn’t make him wretch anymore?

He opens his mouth to say Clint’s name, then realises that the Winter Soldier wouldn’t use that name, wouldn’t necessarily even know that name.

Clint’s not making any noise. That’s not good. If he’s not in pain, that means the burns are full thickness. But he should still be feeling something. There are parts of his skin that aren’t burnt at all, the edges. Then Bucky notices the expression on Clint’s face, screwed up, his eyes tight shut, clearly in pain, but silent.

Most people, when they’re in pain, they make noise. They scream, they sob, they moan. It’s a survival instinct to call for help. All that’s coming from Clint now are those muffled grunts Bucky knows all too well. He understands about not shouting out and smothering your pain instead. He knows what it takes to bury that instinct to cry out deep down inside you. The fact that Clint knows that too… his hands clench into fists at the thought of what he’d do to the people who taught this man that drawing attention to his pain would make it worse.

“Ambulance is on its way, Frosty,” Stark says over the comms. “How bad does it look?”

Bucky forces the calm over himself, forces his brain to assess this as ‘wounded civilian’, not ‘hurt Clint’, and he reels off his assessment as he kneels next to Clint on the ground.

He rests his hand on Clint’s cheek and blue eyes snap open, alert and suspicious. Bucky pulls his hand back placating.

Clint mutters something.

“What?” Bucky asks, signing as well, because Clint’s aids have got to be out of action.

“Mr Fluffles,” Clint says. The words don’t register in Bucky’s brain for a moment, until he remembers Clint’s battle cry from before. The dog. The damn dog.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Bucky says and signs.

“Gotta find him,” Clint says and he’s pushing himself to his feet.

“No. Fuck. Stop!” Bucky says, grasping Clint by the shoulders as gently as he can. “I’ll find him. I’ll find the fucking dog, just get down.” Clint can’t see his mouth to read his lips, though, and his hands are taken up with holding him back, so the words are lost.

Or they’re lost to Clint, anyway.

“What’s this, Winter Soldier?” Stark asks, and Bucky realises his comms are still on. “Are we doing pet rescue now, too? Is there a cat in a tree somewhere you need to get down?”

“Shut up, Iron man,” Bucky growls. “You get Clint to a hospital. I’ll find the damn dog.”

“_This_ is the infamous Clint?” Stark asks. Bucky’s gonna kill Steve because _he_ sure as hell didn’t tell Stark about Clint.

“Don’t even think about starting,” Bucky says. His tone must be severe because Stark backtracks almost immediately.

“Hey, no. Cheer up, Marshmallow. He’s gonna be right as rain. I know people. You just find the pooch. Cap and I have got this.”

Bucky growls again, but Tony’s dropping down into the clearing, so he lets go of Clint and turns to the park. It can’t be that difficult to find a dog answering to the name of Mr Fluffles.

*

When Clint wakes up, he’s in the fanciest hospital room he’s ever seen and there are doctors and nurses telling him things about burn treatments and a busted up shoulder, and staying away from killer robots from now on. You can always count on doctors to give you the best advice.

It all looks very expensive and Clint is hideously aware of his pretty much non-existent health insurance.

He’s about to ask when the door to his room bursts open and a man walks in. It’s not a man Clint’s expecting, though he’d be hard pressed to know who he’d expect in a place like this… Natasha, maybe, Kate, perhaps. It’s neither of them. Who it is, is Tony Stark.

Clint gapes at him.

“Hi there, Lois Lane,” Stark says cheerfully. “Good. You’re awake!” He barely looks up from the phone in his hands as he makes his declaration.

“Uh,” Clint says, the soul of eloquence as always.

“The doctors say you’ll be in for another few days at least.” Clint feels his heart speed up at the thought of paying for another few days of this place. _Another_ implies that he’s already been there for days. Screw having a roommate, Clint’s gonna need to win the lottery to get out of this one.

“That’s really not… I’ll be fine,” Clint says, sitting up. His back throbs.

“Yeah, no. Not that I don’t get the sentiment, Turner, hospitals are horrible.” Stark makes a face. “But you’ve just undergone experimental burn treatments and your bones were… Look, if you don’t stay here, the Winter Soldier’s going to kill me and Captain America will give me the sad eyes while he does it. Have you ever seen Cap’s sad eyes? They’re a menace. Good thing he’s on our side, or he’d have world domination in the bag. They make you feel _this_ big.” He holds up his fingers, a few millimetres apart.

“Stark!” Clint says to cut through the bullshit coming out of the guy’s mouth. “I’d love to stay, but seeing as how some of us don’t have a spare million in pocket change to spend on a new car or, I don’t know, a hospital bill, I don’t think that’s really going to be possible.”

“What?” Stark blinks at him. “Oh, you’re worried about the bills. Don’t. It’s handled.” He waves a hand dismissively.

Clint mouths ‘handled’ to himself, then repeats it out loud. Stark actually pauses to look at him.

“You were injured as a direct result of a conflict between the Avengers and one of their enemies. All fees and costs resulting from your injury are covered by the Maria Stark Foundation.”

“Oh,” Clint says. That’s… amazing.” His chest feels lighter all at once. “What about my job?”

“Which one? The archery or the dog walking? We spoke to your colleagues at the archery centre; they’ve got you covered. You’re officially on paid sick leave.” Clint’s pretty sure the centre doesn’t do paid sick leave. “And I think one of your friends was handling the dogs.”

The dogs. That sparks something in Clint’s memory. Something important.

“Can I just ask, about the archery thing?” Stark says.

“Got a feeling I couldn’t stop you if I tried.”

“How do you get into that? I mean, it’s pretty niche. Maybe if you went to boarding school, one of the posh ones, I can see that being an option, but you don’t seem like the boarding school type.”

“Run away to the circus,” Clint says, deadpan. Stark eyes him curiously, then nods.

The memory comes back to Clint in a flash.

“Mr Fluffles!”

“Mr what now?” Stark asks. “I’ve been called some weird pet names before, but that’s a new one, even to me. I guess my hair has grown out a bit.” He swipes a hair over the mess of dark hair on his head.

“No, the Pomeranian,” Clint says.

“Oh. The dog. In the park.” Realisation washes over Stark’s face. “He’s fine. They’re all fine. In fact–” Stark cuts himself off and taps at his phone for a second before turning to the TV screen behind him.

Clint follows his gaze as the screen comes to life, a picture appearing on it. It shows the Winter Soldier, definitely him, from the black leather, shiny metal arm and dark hair falling over a face mostly covered with a black mask and goggles. Clutched in his arms is a tiny Pomeranian that Clint recognises instantly. He really hopes Mr Fluffles didn’t pee on him.

Although… that would be hilarious.

The Winter Soldier is holding Mr Fluffles.

“That’s a pretty photogenic dog,” Stark says. “Of course, I’m sworn to keep this picture private. Can’t have it getting out that the Snowdrift’s only icy on the outside. It would ruin his rep. But you don’t count as public.”

What does Clint count as then? He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but the picture’s adorable.

“You want a copy?” I can send you one.”

Clint’s not sure he’ll need blackmail material on the Winter Soldier, but he’s certainly not going to say no.


	4. Smoke Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky was supposed to have the day off. He really was. Fucking Ant-flu.

“Look,” Bucky says. He’s been strategizing this for a week. Since he had to leave Clint at the club things have been tense between them. Clint hadn’t even asked for an explanation, just shrugged it off as ‘fine’, but if things were heating up between them before, then they’re cooling down rapidly now. It hadn’t helped that Clint went and got himself in hospital after tackling a stupid Doombot.

Clint looks up from the comic he’s reading upside down on the sofa, his legs hooked over the back, his head dangling down.

“It just… doesn’t make sense for us to always be cooking two different meals,” Bucky says. Logic is how he’s approaching this. It’s safer that way. “So we should eat together. One night. This week. I can cook.”

Clint looks at him, his eyebrows drawn together, but his expression’s difficult to read upside down.

“Our schedules don’t exactly match up,” Clint points out.

“Friday,” Bucky says. “You teach the early class and I have the evening off.” He had come prepared.

“You know my class times?” Clint asks. Is it weird that Bucky knows that? They live together; it should make sense that Bucky has noticed something like that. Shouldn’t it?

“Of course I do. I live with you,” Bucky replies.

“Oh… right. I just… I didn’t know you were paying attention.”

“I pay attention to the important things,” Bucky says. Clint opens his mouth as if to ask something else, so Bucky decides to press the advantage of Clint’s confusion. “Seven o’clock Friday OK for you? Unless you’ve got other plans?”

“No. No other plans… just,” Clint looks conflicted. “Thought you might have plans. I guess you and… You have to make the most of your spare time. You and your… uh. Your schedules can’t sync up that much.”

“What?” Bucky asks, because even by Clint’s standards, that doesn’t make a lick of sense. The blood has definitely rushed to his head. “Me and who? Steve?” Granted, he and Steve have difficulties spending time together outside of avenging, but they see each other enough. “We don’t have to spend all our time together, you know.”

“Right,” Clint says, looking shifty.

“We’re not attached at the hip.” Bucky blames Steve for that, making such a big deal in the press releases about their friendship.

“Is seven good for you?” Bucky asks. His tone must be too sharp, because Clint looks startled.

“Yeah. Seven’s fine.”

“Good.”

Bucky walks away. He swears he used to be good at this.

It’s not until he’s out later that night he realises Clint doesn’t know who he and Steve are, so why would he assume…?

*

Bucky is not supposed to be on call on Friday. Not for anything less than the end of the world. Of course, he’s not discounting that, but by his calculations they’re not due another apocalypse for a month.

He forgot to take into account the flu.

“Ant flu?” Bucky says over the phone. “That’s not a thing, Steve.”

“Apparently it is now and both Ant-man and Wasp have come down with it.”

“What about Thor?” Bucky asks.

“Trapped in another dimension,” Steve tells him, as if that’s normal. But being an avenger does put certain things into perspective; if Steve doesn’t sound worried, it’s probably not worth worrying about.”

“Spider-man?”

“He said something about a project being due,” Steve sounds unsure.

“What about–”

“Buck. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

“This is bullshit,” Bucky tells him.

“Come on, Avenger. That’s not the attitude we need.” If Steve’s using his ‘good ol' Cap’ motivational voice then he must really be desperate. Bucky restrains himself from calling Steve some truly uncomplimentary names and looks down at the groceries in his cart. It’s only being on call. With a bit of luck, nothing will happen.

*

Luck is not on Bucky’s side.

The call comes in at 3pm, just as he’s getting back to the apartment with the ingredients. He’s planned this evening out. He has recipes.

He’s just opening the fridge when his card buzzes in his pocket. Bucky’s whole body freezes for a moment as he looks down at the cream in his hand, then he swears, shoves it into the fridge and heads to his room to get his gear. It’s only 3. It can’t take more than 3 hours.

It takes 5 hours.

With the flying fish monsters and the co-ordinated attack on the Empire State Building, leaving tourists fleeing everywhere and very much in the way, Bucky doesn’t much notice the time. He does notice that it’s suddenly dark, however.

The fish monsters bodies are littering the streets in pulpy, gunky blobs. Steve is reuniting a small girl with her relieved parents and Bucky is tired and covered in fish guts.

“What time is it?” he asks of no one in particular. Dinner’s going to be late. He needs a shower before he starts making it, and sure, he’d like to sleep for a week, but Bucky Barnes is going to wine and dine Clint Barton if it’s the last thing he does, which is looking pretty likely at this point.

“12 minutes past 8,” Stark replies, flying overhead.

“What?” Bucky asks. “Fuck.” That’s over an hour after the time he’s supposed to be having dinner with Clint. They should be well onto dessert by now. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Decontamination first,” Steve says.

“Fuck decontamination,” Bucky says with feeling. “I’ve got a date. I mean… I had a date.”

“Sorry,” Steve says. He does actually sound sorry. “We don’t know where these things came from; we need to clean up before we do anything else.”

“I’m already over an hour late,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on call today.” He kicks one of the oozing fishy corpses, which oozes resentfully onto his boot.

“Just bat your pretty eyelashes at him, I’m sure he’ll understand,” Stark says.

“I was meant to be cooking,” Bucky mutters. He’d had plans: home-made pizza and pie for dessert. He’d bought _wine_. He’s not even sure if Clint likes wine, but… He’d been going to cook.

He hears Stark wheezing a little down the line.

“You cook?” he asks. “Do you have an apron? Is it frilly? Oh my god. I can see it now.”

Bucky does have an apron. It was a gift from Sam; it says ‘Prick with a fork’ on the front. Sam thinks he’s funny. Sometimes Clint wears it to cook bacon in the mornings, when he’s only in his boxers. Bucky loves those mornings.

Bacon and half-naked Clint dancing round the kitchen, shaking his ass to whatever ridiculous pop song is on the radio, if he’s got his aids in, or in his head, if he hasn’t. What’s not to like?

He reaches the decontamination showers eventually and Stark steps back to let him go first.

“Never let it be said I stood in the way of true love.” Bucky glares at him, but Stark just grins back, unrepentant.

*

It’s past nine when Bucky finally turns the corner onto their block. He smells the smoke first, then he sees the fire engines and the crowd of people.

It takes roughly five seconds after that to find the plume of smoke and trace its billowing path back to a window. A window that he knows is only one over from the one he’s been climbing in and out of for the past 3 months (apart from that one time he got the wrong window and walked in on Clint… and the ice cubes).

He breaks into a run, hurling himself towards the throng of rubberneckers in the street, pushing through them towards… an ambulance?

He knows he’s swearing under his breath in English and Russian as he physically pushes people out of his way. His eyes take in the scene, even while his brain is just thinking ‘Clint, please don’t be dead, you stupid fucker.’

He finds Clint sitting on the back of the ambulance with a breathing mask on. Lucky is lying at his feet, looking fine.

A police officer, bags under her eyes, steps in front of him.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to–”

Bucky growls at her and he can see her hand going to her belt.

“Bucky!” Clint’s voice calls. “That’s my roommate. He’s good.” Bucky looks over the officer’s shoulder and his eyes lock onto Clint’s, who suddenly looks like the deer in the proverbial headlights.

“I don’t think the smoke damage is too bad,” Clint says, cringing. Bucky raises an eyebrow because Clint’s hooked up to an oxygen tank, when he isn’t taking the mask off to talk – like an idiot. “And I swear I’ll replace anything that’s ruined. Fuck.” He looks mournfully up at the apartment. “I was trying to – you bought all the stuff and the recipe. I thought…”

“You were trying to make dinner?” Bucky asks.

“Uh… yeah. It didn’t go too well.”

Now he’s no longer focused on finding Clint and the man doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, Bucky can see the side-eye their neighbours are giving them.

“I mean, I figured you’d bought all the stuff. And the recipes were out. So you must have been called away or something.”

“Steve had an emergency,” Bucky says. It’s not a lie, though it’s not the whole truth. He’s been rehearsing it for five blocks because ‘fucking fish monsters attacked and I was covered in their guts’ isn’t a sentence you can say when you’re trying to maintain a secret identity. At least the holo-projection on his arm didn’t short out this time.

“Right,” Clint says.

“And my phone was out of battery,” Bucky adds. He’s still not quite used to that aspect of the future, never being out of touch.

“Yeah. So… I thought I’d try to make it instead,” Clint says. “But–” He looks up at the apartment again and Bucky follows his gaze.

The amount of smoke coming from their apartment has lessened.

“Seriously, I’ll pay for your stuff.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky tells him.

“Naw, I really should.”

“It’s fine!” Bucky says. He knows how little money Clint has to spend, and it’s Bucky’s fault in the first place for not remembering to call to reschedule.

“Oh… okay then,” Clint scratches the back of his head, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “I called Nat. I’m staying with her and Sam tonight. I guess we’ll have to see how much of the stuff we can save tomorrow. She says you can stay, too.”

“No need,” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Of course,” Clint says, slumping a little further.

Natasha arrives to pick him up, then, with Sam in tow.

The quirk of Sam’s mouth speaks volumes, so Bucky gives him the flattest look possible. It has no effect other than to make Sam’s smirk grown to unbearable proportions.

“I’ll… uh… see you, then?” Clint says. Lucky stands up when he does and pushes his face into Bucky’s hand. It’s automatic to pet him.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, but he’s distracted.

Natasha and Clint wander towards her car, leaving Sam to smirk at Bucky.

“Shut up, Wilson.”

“I’m not saying anything, Barnes.” But he grins, bright and wide. “See you. Say hi to Tony for me.”

“I’m not calling Tony,” Bucky says to his back, but Sam’s already gone.

He calls Steve. Tells him what’s happened. Steve is determined to help, because of course he is.

They’ve barely been allowed back in the building before Tony texts him, asking for pictures of the damage, for insurance purposes or something.

It’s ten minutes after that when the cleaning crew arrives to help them and then the deliveries start.

Bucky would complain, but before he even starts, Tony texts again.

_I’m not doing any of this for you. I like your boyfriend. You think his insurance will cover this? I’m covering everyone else in the building too._

So Bucky doesn’t complain.

It still smells of paint the next morning when Clint and Natasha show up. Steve got them breakfast from the coffee shop on the corner and they’re eating pastries on the couch when Clint walks in.

“What the fuck?” he asks, looking around. Bucky catches Natasha’s smile of approval over Clint’s shoulder.

“Nothing a bit of cleaning couldn’t fix,” Steve says cheerfully. If Clint knew Steve well enough he’d be able to tell the guy’s talking complete bullshit. But luckily for Bucky, Clint has no clue how to read Steve’s smile. Steve offers the box and Natasha takes one delicately with a thank you.

“You–” Clint gasps at him and Bucky shrugs. “The oven–”

“I have a good insurance policy,” Bucky says. Again, it’s not entirely a lie. It’s just that his insurance policy happens to be called Tony Stark and likes throwing its money at worthy causes.

“But…” Clint says.

“Say thank you and have a croissant,” Natasha tells him.

“But…”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, letting himself smile a bit at just how gobsmacked Clint is. “Just don’t set it on fire again.” Clint blinks and nods, before frowning as something catches his eye.

“Is that my coffee maker? I don’t remember it having that many buttons.”

“Amazing how different things look when they’re clean,” Steve says, still with a shit-eating grin.

*


	5. Fever All Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things Clint has hallucinated, Bucky Barnes kissing his forehead is probably the most unlikely, And that includes Captain America and the dancing elephants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Fever.

Clint is too hot. He’s boiling. He kicks the blanket off.

He starts shivering.

His head is thumping like the bass beat don’t stop and there’s a furious ache right behind his eyes that makes him want to scream. But that would be noise and noise would be bad.

His teeth start to chatter, adding a rat-a-tat-tattle to the _thwum thwum thwum _of his headache.

He is too cold. He gropes for the blanket with a heavy arm and rolls himself up into it, tighter and tighter until he’s just a blanket caterpillar with a Clint face sticking out the top.

The shaking doesn’t stop.

He’s sweating, sticky and disgusting all over, but he’s shivering with the cold.

_Thwum thwum thwum_

Rat-a-tat-tattle

His mouth is so dry. Dry like a dust cloud. Or a… or a… a very dry thing.

Lucky whines and the sound pierces through him. His hearing aids are still in. But his hands are all bound up in the blanket roll so he can’t take them out.

He wants to take them out. Now he’s remembered them, they itch and it’s like they don’t fit right. He can feel all the edges clogging up his ears. Is it possible for the insides of your ears to sweat? He wants them out, out, out.

Clint’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Water.

Water is in the tap. The tap is in the kitchen.

A yawning chasm of open space lies between him and the kitchen. It is insurmountable, unpassable.

He would have to walk. Which would require him to be upright and to carry his heavy pounding head over there.

His legs have merged into one blanket tail anyway, he cannot walk.

Lucky whines again, then jumps off the bed.

Clint tries not to feel upset. But Lucky had been warm and he is so cold.

Shivering in his own sweat.

He can’t get comfortable.

The blankets are too tight. His arm is caught beneath him. Are his arms always like this? Getting in his way? How does he usually have his arms?

He can feel the vibrations of Lucky’s footsteps as he comes back in and he turns towards the door.

Everything’s a bit blurry, but Lucky isn’t alone. There’s a dark figure following him. A shadow person.

Clint tries to sit up.

He’s caught, tied up. He can’t get his arms free. He needs his bow. Who tied him up?

The shadow person comes closer and raises a hand.

Clint tries to twist away, but he’s all bound up, like Frodo in the spider’s web. He has to get free.

Cool fingers touch his forehead and the tension slumps right out of him.

The blessed, blessed cold of those fingers. He blinks crusty eyelids and the shadow person’s features resolve into a face.

A Bucky face.

“Bucky?” Clint croaks. Bucky shushes him. Clint opens his mouth to protest.

“Shh,” Bucky says again, brushing cool, hard fingers across Clint’s face so very carefully. “I’ll get you some water and a thermometer, okay.” He stands up, but Clint doesn’t want him to go. He doesn’t want to be alone, shivering, with the thumping in his head.

Bucky reads his mind, turns back and leans down.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Promise?” Clint asks, because people say things. People can say anything.

“Promise,” Bucky says.

He doesn’t really know how long Bucky is gone for. It feels like no time at all, it feels like days. But then he’s back and there’s ice water and a terrible, hard thermometer stuck in his mouth. It beeps and Bucky frowns.

The blankets are unwound from around him, though Clint clings onto them desperately.

“We need to get your temperature down, doll. Just let me help you.”

Clint loses time, then. The world stabs into him in bits and pieces, little shards of reality that pierce his blanket of pain and fever.

He remembers being propped up against Bucky’s chest, being fed soup. He remembers being lowered into something cold. He remembers Buck Chisholm, looming in the corner, making him shoot again and again and again. His father’s voice tells him he will never amount to anything. Barney tells him to stop being such a wimp. You have to pull your weight Clint. We all have to do our part.

He struggles to his feet. He remembers voices shouting his name.

Captain America tells him to get well and listen to Bucky – in sign language. Clint says he will; he always listens to Bucky. Bucky has a nice voice. Sometimes Clint only puts his hearing aids in so he can hear Bucky’s voice.

Captain America laughs. He looks a bit like he did in the comics, his head thrown back.

Clint remembers dancing with a dinosaur.

And the marching elephants. He remembers them too, stamping so loudly the whole world had shaken with it.

Gradually, the world returns to itself again, and time pieces itself together into one line, rather than a thousand higgledy-piggledy jigsaw pieces. He wakes up groggy and grimy, his head full of cotton wool, his mouth included. He can’t hear, so his aids must have been taken out at some point, but something is making the bed vibrate, and there’s a hard, heavy weight over his feet.

Clint stretches his head up, every muscle in his body protesting, and sees Bucky passed out, face down on the bed, his left arm over Clint’s calves.

Clint smiles to himself and lets himself drift back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, Bucky is gone, but Lucky, who took his place, bounds to his feet and runs out of the door as soon as Clint’s awake.

He comes back a few seconds later with Bucky, who’s carrying a tray with a tantalising smell wafting from it.

“Hey. You with me?” Bucky asks. He looks softer than usual. Sort of rumpled. It’s a good look on him. It makes Clint think of lazy mornings and rumpled sheets.

“I think so,” Clint says after a second. He shuffles uncomfortably, because Bucky might look good, but Clint doesn’t like people seeing him like this.

Strangely, he doesn’t feel as disgusting as he should. Last time he got sick, he holed himself up in his room and he woke up stewing in his own sweat and saliva.

He remembers water and gentle cool hands wiping at him. Aw hell. He doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or annoyed that apparently Bucky Barnes bathed him and Clint remembers shit about it. Embarrassed, he decides in the end. He’s definitely embarrassed.

“You still look a little flushed,” Bucky says with a frown. “I thought your temperature was back down, but…”

“I’m good,” Clint says hastily, holding up a hand. He doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s ashamed. Not of his body – Clint got over any problems he might have had with nudity a long time ago – but the fact that he had to be helped to bathe. He’s a grown-ass man. He should be capable of taking care of himself. That is was Bucky who saw him like that just makes it worse. Sure, Bucky’s dating a fucking superhero, but Clint’s been hoping that he maybe doesn’t think Clint’s a complete trash fire of a human being.

There’s only so much you can do to hide the truth, though.

He pulls himself up into a sitting position, forcing his breathing to stay even. He shouldn’t get winded just from sitting up.

Clint thinks he’s done a decent job of keeping his hand steady as it picks up the spoon, but as he dips it into the soup it taps an irregular rhythm against the side of the bowl.

“Do you want me to–” Bucky starts.

“I think I can manage to feed myself,” Clint says. But after the first three spoonfuls end up back in the bowl again, he’s starting to rethink that.

Bucky makes a thoughtful sound and disappeared back beyond the door, leaving Clint to humiliate himself in private, thank god.

The third spoonful makes it almost to his mouth before his hand wobbles a bit more and it slops right down his front.

Clint looks down at his t-shirt in resigned dismay.

Of course Bucky chooses that moment to come back in. He doesn’t seem bothered by Clint’s newest stain, just crosses to the bed, plops a mug down on the bedside table, scoops up the bowl and transfers the soup from one to the other.

“Here,” he says, holding out the mug. Clint takes it, wrapping his hands around it. The trembling barely makes the soup move at all, and he lifts it to his mouth to take a gulp.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Shoulda thought,” Bucky says with a shake of his head. He hovers there by the bed, his hand lifting slightly, then pulling back as he folds his arms across his chest.

“You can go,” Clint says. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for…” he shrugs.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m good. You’ve definitely got better things to do than babysit me.” Buck frowns and doesn’t move, so Clint repeats: “I’m good.”

“Hmm,” Bucky agrees finally. “You call if you need anything.”

“Sure,” Clint says, lying through his teeth. Bucky’s done enough. How long was Clint even sick for? His memories, full of Captain America and dinosaurs are erratic and nonsensical. He could have been holed up for a week, or less than 24 hours. He doesn’t ask.

Bucky lingers another long moment, staring at Clint with sharp eyes that seem to see straight through him. Then he nods and turns on his heel out of the door.

Clint feels the phantom press of lips against his forehead and wrinkles it experimentally. There’s no way that memory is real. He must have been so out of it. He was hallucinating _Captain America_ after all.

Lucky curls up next to him and rests his big soppy head on Clint’s lap, staring up with his huge doggy eye.

“Good boy,” Clint tells him and gets a tail wag in response.

*


	6. You Give Me Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky does yoga.
> 
> That's pretty much the last thought Clint has before his brain whites out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the song Fever.

Okay. So Bucky does yoga. No big deal. Lots of people do yoga, Clint. Natasha does yoga. You’ve done yoga, on occasion to prove to Natasha that you can.

So yeah. It’s a totally normal phenomenon. And no reason at all to stand gawking in the doorway with your mouth open as wide as a barn door.

It’s just that… he didn’t _know_ Bucky did yoga. And he certainly didn’t know Bucky did it in their living room at exactly the time when Clint was coming back from dog walking. So he wasn’t expecting to find his roommate (and maybe, slight, possible, full on raging crush) wearing tight workout clothes, glistening with a slight sheen of sweat and… bending.

Bucky pushes up into a full bridge position and suddenly Bucky’s looking at Clint and Clint is looking at… Bucky’s crotch.

The door is still open. Lucky runs over to give Bucky a hello lick and… Clint does not want to finish that thought because he kind of wants to do the same.

“You coming in?” Bucky asks.

“Yoga,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. He doesn’t even sound strained. His posture is completely steady, the muscles in his arms standing out as they keep him up.

Then Bucky bends more. He folds his arms up under him, pushing his back high. His crotch is still right there, just… more so. If that’s even possible.

“It’s good for flexibility.”

“Meurgh,” Clint replies. His brain is on vacation. His tongue is mostly just trying not to fall out of his mouth until he’s panting like Lucky.

“Maybe you should close the door,” Bucky suggests.

“Mmhm.”

Bucky walks his feet up under him and bends his legs as well until he’s folded like a sexy upside-down turtle on the floor.

Clint has no idea what he’s thinking anymore. There’s a strip of flesh showing, right across Bucky’s middle, where the tank top rides up and his yoga pants don’t quite reach it, just a sneaky little strip of skin and abs with the hint of dark hair.

Clint wants to taste it.

“Are you going to do it, or just stand there?” Bucky asks. Clint almost swallows his tongue, brain faltering at the very idea. Lucky comes to stand at his feet, his wagging tail thumping against the door.

The door, that’s what Bucky’s talking about.

Clint drags his eyes away and turns to close the door, trying to get his face under control.

When he turns around, Bucky’s moved again. He’s standing now, sort of, leg’s spread and body bent in half so he’s looking at Clint from between his knees.

“You okay, Clint?” Bucky asks.

“Fine,” Clint squeezes out through his teeth.

_Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at his ass._

Clint looks at his ass.

The image is seared into his memory forever.

“Do you want to try it?” Bucky asks.

_Fuck yes_, says Clint’s brain. His dick jerks in vigorous agreement. His jeans are feeling a whole lot tighter all of a sudden.

“There are some positions you can do in pairs,” Bucky continues. Clint bites back a whimper. Bucky is dating the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier will literally kill Clint if he hits on his boyfriend. Not to mention the fact that Bucky doesn’t need to feel uncomfortable doing _perfectly normal and in no way erotic_ exercise in his own home. Clint is a terrible roommate.

“You see,” Bucky says, moving his body in some improbable way that makes his muscles ripple. “And you lie underneath me–”

“Got to go shower. Dog slobber!” Clint declares, running for the bathroom door.

*

After Clint disappears and the hum of the shower starts up, the living room is mostly quiet apart from the beating of Lucky’s tail against the floor. Bucky unfolds himself and sits down, reaching over to scratch Lucky’s head. He grins and Lucky grins back, tail beating twice as fast.

“Was it something I said?”


End file.
